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  For all my friends, both good and bad, and for Alaric, the best of them all.

  You’re lying, sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, legs bent, arms wide. If I squint, you could be playing Sleeping Bunnies. Or maybe Twister. Or you might have flung yourself there in a parody of total exhaustion the way we did as teenagers. ‘Stop the world, I want to get off,’ we used to shout, tossing our school bags and collapsing onto the sofa. But tonight, your hair’s covering most of your face and your neck’s at a funny angle. And there’s blood. So much blood.

  The blood around the gash on your forehead is starting to crisp. I wish I could tell you how beautiful the tiny claret-coloured crystals are or that the blood pooling around your head looks like a halo. But you’re past listening.

  I should be beside myself. Instead, I find myself circling, careful to avoid the blood, acting like I’m trying to work out what happened. Even though I already know. I feel detached, like I’m watching this unfold on CSI or one of the other trashy TV shows we always used to watch together. I stop and wait for the waves of sorrow and regret to come rolling in. Nothing happens. I blink hard, trying to force tears into my eyes so I can palm them away. Nothing comes.

  I lean in, so close the tips of my hair almost graze your skin. I need to see your face. It’s the face I see in my head every time I go to the gym. The face that makes me run until my trainers burn against the rubber of the treadmill. The face that makes me clench my thighs tighter every time I have sex.

  This close, I can see dark hairs under the arch of your eyebrows. There are bags under your eyes and dried saliva on your lip. I want to wipe it away, tidy you up. But I can’t disturb the scene. I cast my eyes up the stairs behind you. Polished wood, so shiny you could eat your dinner off it. Every homeowner’s pride and joy. Lethal to a pair of stockinged feet. The tiniest misstep could have catapulted you headfirst to the bottom.

  I bend down again, my ear an inch from your mouth. There it is. The tiniest exhalation. You’re breathing. The tears come now, a cascade of emotions I can’t separate accompanying them. Wedged among them, the sharp sting of disappointment. I tamp it down and hurry to the door. I need to let the paramedics in. And then I have to be careful. Because as the energy trickles out of your body, it’s pumping into mine. And while this could be a tragic accident, if anyone’s got a motive to hurt you, it’s me.

  One

  Saturday 1 December

  9.02 a.m.

  I stamp my feet and bang on the door again. I wish they’d hurry up and open it. I’m dying for the loo. And it’s Baltic out here. The Porsche Cayenne is parked outside so they’re definitely home. Aren’t people with kids always saying they have to be up before dawn? So why aren’t they answering? The old woman with the dog climbing the steps to one of the tall houses on the opposite side of the road keeps looking over. She probably thinks I’m breaking and entering. To the suspicious mind, my faded black leggings and dark puffa jacket are just what a burglar might wear. I want to call out something reassuring like, ‘Don’t worry, I’m a friend of the Waverlys’, but I suspect that might alarm her further. I inspect my left hand – I was so excited to get over here I didn’t think about getting a much-needed mani – and try to think warm, non loo-related thoughts instead.

  It doesn’t work. I shift from one leg to the other, eyeing the potted bay trees on either side of the glossy front door. If I have to wait much longer, I might end up squatting over one of them. Not quite the way I wanted to introduce the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I should have called first.

  I jiggle for a few moments, then give up and start rummaging through my bag. I’m digging past the sticker book for Tilly, Ed’s car keys, three lip balms and a bag of dog treats when the door swings open. Standing in a cloud of the Issey Miyake perfume she’s worn since school is Izzy, my best friend. She’s a vision in Lycra. I thrust my left hand behind my back – I want this to be a surprise.

  ‘Bec? What are you doing here? And why are you standing like a penguin?’

  ‘Are you going running?’ I feel a little guilty. I was so excited to get over here it slipped my mind that Izzy runs in the mornings. I remind myself that I’d be more than happy for her to turn up on my doorstep any time of the day or night. Though, given the state of my flat, it’s unlikely she would.

  ‘I was about to head up to the common. It’s my morning to run while Rich watches Tilly. Is everything okay, hon?’

  ‘More than okay. Just some good news to share. And –’ I rustle the paper bag in my right hand ‘– I brought pastries.’

  Izzy hesitates. Her Fitbit blinks like it’s having a seizure. She looks at it longingly, then says, ‘Go on then. I went to the gym while Tilly was at nursery yesterday.’

  ‘That’s the spirit! Now will you let me in already? I’ve been standing here so long your neighbour thinks I’m a burglar. And I’m dying for the loo.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ She stands aside so I can rush past. ‘Then you can tell me this good news. It must be something big to get you out of bed before lunchtime.’

  9.14 a.m.

  I’m sitting on the buttercup-coloured Oka sofa next to the breakfast bar. It offsets its Farrow and Ball surrounds perfectly. I brush my fingers along the wall. ‘Lamp Room Gray’ with ‘Elephant’s Breath’ for the feature wall. The Dulux colours of mine and Ed’s two-bed don’t lift the imagination in quite the same way.

  She seems to be taking forever to plate the pastries. I play with one of the throw cushions to distract myself. This is exactly the kind of sofa I’d love to have if dog hair and my natural tendency to spill didn’t prevent such a style statement. Not many three-year-olds could be trusted around such a beautiful piece, but naturally Izzy’s daughter, Tilly, is super well-behaved. Not to mention well-policed; half her toys have nanny cameras in them and she’s not allowed to go to the bathroom on her own. As if on cue, I hear her on the landing upstairs, her footsteps punctuated by Rich’s heavier tread. I jump up. I want my news to have Izzy’s complete attention. Apart from texting my brother, Rob, she will be the first person I tell.

  ‘This is quite a haul.’ Izzy offers me a plate as I come round the bar. ‘Did you win the lottery?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’ I grin as I shoot my left hand across the marble counter splaying my fingers so fast I look like a demented Harry Potter character casting a spell. She can’t miss the huge diamond sitting on my ring finger. ‘Ed proposed.’

  Izzy’s so surprised she doesn’t say anything for a second. Then her face breaks into a smile. She sweeps me into a hug.

  ‘That’s fantastic, Bec. Just what you’ve been waiting for. I’m so thrilled for you.’

  She goes over to her double fridge and pulls out a bottle of Moet. She’s so grown up. The only booze in my fridge is the stuff I’m planning to drink that night.

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see the ring first?’ Izzy loves diamonds. I’m surprised it wasn’t the first thing she asked about.

  ‘I can see it from over here. It’s massive!’ She’s fiddling with the champagne.

  ‘What’s massive? Hey, Bec.’ Rich comes in, Tilly looped around his neck so her blonde plait sweeps across his broad chest. His dark hair’s rumpled like he just got up. I concentrate on my cheese straw. I might have known him
my whole life – we even had baths together as kids – but I still get tongue-tied when I first see him. Rich Waverly was captain of the rugby team while I was what you might call a ‘late bloomer’. Izzy thinks my feelings are a throwback from when we were at school. She, of all people, should know there’s a bit more to it than that.

  ‘Ed proposed!’ Izzy practically throws the champagne at Rich. ‘Here, do this. I’m useless this morning.’

  ‘Bec, that’s great! He’s a lucky man.’ Rich deposits Tilly on the floor and pops the cork in one movement. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘On the common walking Missy.’ I pull myself together. ‘He thought I might want to tell Izzy on my own so we could – and I quote – “get all the screaming and crying” out of our systems.’

  Rich laughs. ‘A man after my own heart. And he walks the dog as well. Why don’t we meet him up there? Take Tilly’s scooter and make a morning of it?

  Tilly’s already at the built-in shoe rack, pulling shoes and boots off at random.

  ‘What about the pastries?’ Izzy’s looking flustered. ‘And the champers?’

  ‘Bring them. I’ll grab plastic flutes from the pantry.’ Rich starts moving and I picture him at work, executing deals, a stream of minions in his wake. Not that I really know what he does. Something in finance. ‘We’ll bung the pastries in a carrier bag. What’s left of them, anyway…’

  He smirks as I blush. Now I’m engaged, I might need to rethink my pastry habit.

  ‘Come on.’ He grabs Izzy’s hands and swings her arms. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’

  ‘Okay. But only for an hour or so. You promised you’d get the Christmas tree this weekend and I’ve got to finish the Beef Wellington before your family comes over.’

  ‘I’ll do that when we get back. I only have to finish the chapter I’m working on then I’m free as a bird.’ Rich starts to chase Tilly up the stairs, their feet clattering against the polished wood as Tilly’s laughter bounces down the stairs.

  ‘I’ll text Ed and tell him to meet us at the bandstand,’ I call.

  ‘Already done,’ Rich shouts back. ‘See you up there.’

  Their footsteps recede.

  ‘How is his book going?’ I ask while Izzy forcefully repacks her Anya Hindmarch ‘mummy’ handbag.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘You’re a bit quiet. I’m sorry I derailed your run.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She stuffs another packet of wet wipes into the bag. ‘I’m just knackered. I know everyone thinks I’ve got nothing to do now that Tilly’s at nursery four days a week but I’ve actually got a lot on. Rich is working all hours and if he’s not, he’s holed up in his study trying to “write”.’ Izzy swipes her hands through the air to make inverted commas.

  ‘Is his novel any good?’

  ‘How should I know? He won’t let me read it. And that’s not the point.’ Izzy sounds harassed. ‘I’ve got a lot to manage. I’m trying to get Christmas sorted and Tilly’s picked now of all times to have some sort of sleep regression. I could do without a big family lunch this weekend.’

  I know she resents the time Rich’s writing takes up but I can’t help thinking that if she gave him a bit more freedom to pursue it, he’d be a lot happier. Not that I would ever dare say that. ‘Can you postpone?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You know I love seeing Rich’s parents and they’re so excited to have Henry back in town. This is the first time all their boys will be together since he got that job in Geneva.’

  ‘Jenny will be in her element.’ Rich’s mum once told me that he and his brothers, Henry and Charlie, were named after kings of England, which is appropriate given that she treats them like royalty. As someone who’s lost their own mother, it’s touching to watch. ‘Do you know, when they were little, she used to—’

  ‘Anyway, hark at us.’ Izzy changes the subject, oblivious to my attempted anecdote. ‘Boozing on Clapham Common in the early hours of a Saturday morning. It’s almost like nothing’s changed in the last fifteen years.’

  ‘Our terrible taste in blokes?’ I play along.

  ‘Speak for yourself. My taste has always been impeccable. Yours on the other hand…’

  She’s joking. But out of nowhere, the memory of a white rose, as bright as a fresh sheet of paper, and Rich’s hand brushing my face tumbles into my mind. If things had been different that night… I steady my breath. I haven’t let myself think about that moment in almost two decades. I will not start now.

  ‘We can’t all meet Prince Charming when we’re sixteen,’ I say lightly as Izzy switches off the kitchen light and holds out her elbow so we can link arms. ‘Some of us have to wait a while.’

  Two

  9.30 a.m.

  ‘So tell me how he did it. Did he whisk you out for a swanky dinner or get down on one knee in front of the Christmas tree? I want to hear every last detail. Even the naughty ones.’

  We’re at the traffic lights at the end of their road. Clapham Common’s at the top of the hill, a swathe of green stretching the length of the road all the way down to the station. Normally it’s packed with joggers and dog walkers but today the cold is keeping all but the most dedicated away.

  ‘It was a total surprise.’ I smile both at the memory and at the idea of being organized enough to have a Christmas tree already. ‘Though I probably should have clocked something was up when he was home before me.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he missed Friday night drinks. Sacre bleu.’

  Before she had Tilly, Izzy used to work at the same risk management firm as Ed. That’s how I met him. Of course, at the beginning, I assumed he was interested in her. With legs up to her armpits, blonde hair and perfect features, most guys usually are. Thankfully I was wrong. This time.

  ‘Exactly. Anyway I thought it was a bit weird when I saw his bike chained up in the front garden but he made some excuse about drinks not being on because it’s December and everyone’s so busy.’ I breathe in, remembering the smell of cinnamon in the air. ‘But he’d lit candles. And he was making curry as well. That was when I thought something might be up.’

  ‘Candles and curry. Basic male seduction 101.’

  ‘We can’t all have Mr Romance.’

  Rich has always surprised Izzy with gifts and treats. I remember the collective envy of our entire sixth form common room when he bought her a locket from H Samuel for their one-month anniversary. She’s honed his taste in jewellery since then. He proposed with a family heirloom on a cliff in Cornwall. He’d got up at the crack of dawn and abseiled down to spell out ‘Will you marry me?’ in stones on the beach below. As grand gestures go, it’s pretty hard to beat.

  ‘Carry on,’ Izzy urges.

  The lights change and we start walking across the road. A car beeps, either at our leisurely pace or, more likely, Izzy in tight Lycra.

  ‘Okay. So I was thinking maybe he’d got a pay rise or that he finally wanted to talk about moving house. I didn’t think he was going to propose. I had my coat on! I was hanging it on the bottom of the stairs when he suddenly dropped to one knee in front of me. I thought he’d tripped on a loose floorboard at first.’ I shake my head. ‘I was so busy trying to help him up I didn’t even see the ring box in his hand.’

  ‘Only you would try and give a proposing man some assistance.’ Izzy laughs. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t fetch his toolkit and make him a cup of tea while you were at it.’

  ‘It has been said I do make a good cup of tea.’

  ‘Must be all that practice you get at work,’ Izzy quips. I laugh, but the comment stings a little.

  She sees my face. ‘Too close to the bone?’

  I shrug. I’ve been the features assistant at the magazine where I work for the past four years and some days it does feel like all I do is make tea. That doesn’t mean I want to be reminded of it.

  ‘So anyway, I stopped trying to help him up.’ I try to restore momentum. ‘In fact I pretty much stopped breathing altogether. Then he lo
oked at me and said, “I’ve known from the minute I met you I always wanted you in my life. Would you do me the very great honour of marrying me?”’

  I wait for Izzy to point out that if he knew from the moment he met me, it shouldn’t have taken him three years to ask. Uncharacteristically, she lets the comment go.

  ‘That’s so sweet, hon. These men pretend to be so macho but they’re jelly when it comes to this. I remember Rich was so choked up he could barely get the words out.’

  ‘Ed didn’t cry,’ I admit. ‘But his voice did go a bit scratchy.’

  ‘So romantic.’ Izzy looks up at the shops we’re about to pass. ‘I’m dying for a coffee and we’re going right past Grind. Shall we pop in?’

  ‘I thought you were off caffeine.’ Izzy switched coffee for green tea about six months ago. She claims it’s for health reasons but I suspect it’s because she’s thinking about getting pregnant again.

  ‘I need something to keep my eyes open.’ Izzy steers me into a café with a gunmetal grey awning and thumping bass. ‘Last night was like something out of The Night of the Living Dead, I can’t tell you. In the end, it got so bad I made Rich go and lie on her bed with her until she fell asleep. I better grab him one too.’

  Grind turns out to be one of these trendy places that have turned coffee into an art form. The barista shakes his head condescendingly when I ask if they do hot chocolate. Izzy takes charge, ordering two flat whites while I lean against the wall, letting the smell of beans fill my lungs. It reminds me of my mum and her five-a-day habit. She would not have approved of this café, I think, looking at the men with man buns and designer stubble serving coffees in glasses. I swallow. It’s been fifteen years but some days the loss feels so sharp it’s like it happened yesterday.

  ‘Ready?’ Izzy’s voice breaks in. She’s holding a cardboard tray with three paper cups jammed into it. ‘I thought about getting you a mocha but I figured if you’ve managed to avoid getting hooked on coffee this long, why start now? I got Ed a flat white as well though.’